


The Chronicles of War

by J_Antebellum



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, world war ii au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-26 18:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: SINOPSIS: Cormoran Strike is the eldest of three orphaned children in London. After they lose it all during the Blitz bombings, their luck will somehow change when they find the generous, kind and upper-class Ellacott family farm in North Yorkshire.There are themes of violence, death, cruelty and drama. Also some Strike things had to change, like some names to make it more fitting for the 1940s.ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I've always loved Narnia, and felt from childhood a strange pull towards Charles Dickens’ ‘David Copperfield’, ‘Oliver Twist’ and ‘Great Expectations’. I have also been weird enough to feel a strange pull my whole life to World War II stories and accounts. All of that somehow has merged into this Fanfic, to tell stories of war, of tragedy, of love, of friendship, and of survival through what for me were one of the worst times in history.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. It was war time

**Author's Note:**

> I studied the war at school, yet I never studied it from a UK point of view (as I was educated in Spain) and I reckon that no matter how much research has gone into this story, there will likely be mistakes and historical errors, which I hope you will be forgiving with. I also hope nobody feels disrespected for the real parts (mostly the war) that go into this fic, since I intended to talk about war with respect, specially to its victims,and to show the worst of it, and the best of humanity (when some of us come together in times of darkness), to keep the real stories that I’ve read and known of and which inspired this Fanfic alive, and vow, to never fall into such darkness and horror ever again. Thank you.

**Chapter 1: It was war time.**

The Blitz bombings had been devastating London for a while, and while the entire city was panicked and anxious, it didn’t seem the case for Charlotte Campbell, the rich, upper-class daughter of a RAF Captain who, while her father was risking his life out there, was secretly fucking her low-class boyfriend in her bedroom, getting condoms from America that she stole from her parents. Her luxurious bed’s springs screeched a little as the seventeen-year-old Cormoran Strike pounded into her in a frenzy, their moans drowned in each other’s skin, as each tried to forget worries they pretended they didn’t have, both wanting to keep cool, collected facades, even if they looked more sleepless and, in Strike’s case, thinner every day. There was also the added adrenaline of knowing they had no time to waste, because another bombing and they would be dead.

As Strike came, he kissed his stunning secret girlfriend’s lips, drowning both their moans while her nails drew lines on his back, and gradually, he stopped moving.

“That was good,” Charlotte smiled flirtatiously, sitting up and readjusting her dress, cleaning herself with tissues she dropped into a nearby bin, while Strike cleaned himself, threw the condom into the bin, and readjusted his own clothes. Dark trousers up, shirt tucked back, and suspenders clipped back in place. “Hurry, my siblings could come any minute.”

Charlotte had four younger siblings, all of them now home-schooled students, all of them in the house, like her unemployed, snobbish mother.

“I love you,” said Strike like he always said, because she was his first love. He kissed her and she smiled and winked. She never said it back, but Strike’s heart was too damaged to care any more. His father had died in France, during Christmas the first year of the war, and he had two younger children and a mother to worry about.

“You better go, grab your books, we were studying, remember?”

Strike’s aunt, Catherine  Waterstone , was one of the very few teachers remaining in Bromley, and so she homeschooled her own nephews and niece, and then other kids like Charlotte, which was how she and Strike had met.  So Strike grabbed his briefcase, threw it over his shoulder, and Charlotte guided him to the back door. Her mother thought he was some classmate, but she was so absent in her book clubs and snob affairs that she’d never actually seen Strike, and Charlotte wanted to keep it that way. After all, Strike was too lower class.

S trike ran then through the garden, and was soon back in the streets of Bromley, arriving to the little house where he lived with his widowed mother, his sister Lucy, who was nearly fourteen, their brother Teddy, who had just turned five, and their aunt, Catherine Waterstone, of their mother’s same age and four years younger than her only sibling, Strike’s father, but married to Uncle Peter Waterstone, who was deployed for the war. Strike remembered vividly how the news of his father’s death, and the arrival of his few remains weeks later, had affected his widow and sister, but both women had now become warriors in a fight to survive themselves, and the three children.

“There you are!” Lucy appeared at the door, in her blouse and skirt. Clothes and food were being rationed, along with most things in life, and so their clothes kept being fixed by the adults, because they grew too fast. “Mum was getting _worried_ , and they need your measures for a suit.”

“What suit? God knows we haven’t got the money for it.”

“They want to try to keep the wedding as decent as possible, considering the situation… and since you’re the best man, they’re fixing one of Dad’s old suits for you. You’re the best man, you should have these things in mind.”

“You’ve said that twice,” Strike rushed up the stairs to her mother’s bedroom.

“Cormoran, finally!” Leda rushed to him.

She was always anguished lately, and she hugged her eldest son a bit tighter than she would weren’t they in war. Leda was a stunningly beautiful woman, who had dreamed of being a singer or a model, but now settled with caring for the house, administering the little her husband had had to leave them, and being a nurse to support the troops and the country. She had long dark hair, thin lips, a heart-shaped face, and dark green eyes only Cormoran had inherited. He had the Nancarrow looks of her family, while Lucy and Teddy had the Strike looks, the blue eyes and light brown hair, and less rounder features, all of them though, tall for their age.

“Where were you?” asked Aunt Catherine eyeing him suspiciously. She looked a lot like Lucy and her late brother, Cormoran Senior, and was young and beautiful and spent a lot of time with the kids due to Leda’s demanding job, and they loved her very much. She was all culture and intelligence and taught them to write, read, and even some Latin. She was now forcing the young Teddy to stay put while she analysed where the tuck in the sleeves of one of Strike’s old trousers since, despite being tall for his age, Strike had been even taller than his brother at the same age. “Well it doesn’t matter,” she added before he could answer, “get to try your father’s with your mother. We’ll have to fix it, but it should look nice.”

“Luckily you’re nearly as tall already, and just as handsome,” Leda squeezed her son’s cheeks lovingly, as he was at eye level with her, and pushed him to stand in a more enlightened corner with his brother, taking a folded suit from the bed. “Come on, strip to your underwear, don’t be shy.”

Strike wasn’t shy, rather reticent because he knew Charlotte was a territory-marker, and his mother wasn’t stupid like Mrs Campbell was, rather quite observant. Lucy, bored beyond comprehension, came and sat on the bed watching her brothers, and as Strike removed his shirt, Leda’s eyes widened.

“Oh dear, who’ve you been fucking?”

“Mum!” he said embarrassed, blushing hard. “Nobody, I’m seventeen! It’s from being in the countryside and the factory, one gets scratched…”

“Yes sure,” Leda rolled eyes. “Honey, you think I’m bloody stupid? People all over the world are parents at your age quite often, and your best friends are getting married at seventeen, mind you. I’d rather you told me things, ‘cause I’m your mother, and if you leave some poor girl pregnant—,”

“Not gonna happen, we got condoms,” Strike admitted shyly. Catherine snorted, a needle between her lips, Teddy sniggered, Lucy’s eyes widened and Leda rolled eyes, buttoning one of Strike Senior’s old shirts on her son.

“How did you even got hold of those?” Leda inquired.

“She steals them from her parents, they’re rich. I wouldn’t go around risking getting somebody pregnant, Mum. And I love her, is not like I’m whoring around!”

“Love her?” Catherine frowned. “At this age nobody knows love. You fancy her, which is different. Who even is she, rich girls around here…? Wait a second…” she turned to him rapidly. “Charlotte Campbell?”

“The posh girl your aunt gives classes to?” Leda asked incredulous, and Strike blushed harder. “Oh you young boy, you better make sure her parents never know! Her Dad’s a RAF Captain, he’ll shoot you if he finds out you’re doing his girl!”

“He’ll never know, it’s not like he’s here anyway and her mother doesn’t care ‘bout anything she does, she’s absent as hell,” argued Strike defensively. He’d been boxing with the kids since he was a teen, and his nose was a little crooked, and he snored, after one break hadn’t healed perfectly, and he had short, dark, curly hair that was almost like a pubis, but to his mother, he was the handsomest of boys.

Now, Leda took his face firmly in her hands and locked serious eyes with him, full of worry.

“Darling, that needs to stop, okay? You can’t keep hooking up with her. You have to promise me.”

“But Mum!”

“Cormoran,” she gave him a stern look, and then sighed. “You know if things were different, I’d encourage you to go meet girls, you know I’m not like those mothers with a stick up their arses… but Cormoran I bust my arse off at work I’m hardly here, and your father’s never coming back. We need money, we need everybody to put their weight in here, and if that family finds out, you won’t only be in trouble, but you’ll get your aunt in trouble, and they’re the very few good-paying clients she’s got, you understand? And frankly, you’re studying and working, you should be saving your free time to either rest or come and help us take care of your little siblings. You’re the man in the house, you should be learning to manage money, to do house care, to know what to do if God help us, next raid falls on our house. You could be the only one of us left any day, any of us could, so we all need to be prepared to survive not… not distracted fucking some posh girl.”

“Would it be okay if she wasn’t posh?” he asked defiantly.

“No,” said Leda, and her eyes filled with tears. It happened a lot lately. “Don’t be mad at me, Cormoran, had I known this was the life my children were gonna have, I’d never have had any children, rather than put you through this hell… but look at Nick and Ilsa, having to leave their families and run to fucking Leeds so they stand a chance to survive. That girl’s only using you, she’s bored and lacks responsibilities and it’s just what rich people do and that’s not judging, that’s knowledge from my very own experience, rich people will only use us, the poor, for their pleasure… and you’ll get your heart broken, and what for? To have wasted valuable time you could’ve spent here, learning survival? Learning for example to do this fucking suit for yourself, so that when we don’t have for clothes and I’m dead you can make something for yourself?”

Strike sighed, but softened.

“Don’t talk like that Mum, you’re still young.”

“And so was your father,” she sniffled, and focused on fixing the suit. “God, you’re going to look even handsomer than the groom… he’d be smiling so big, if he could see you now,” she smiled sadly, using needles to mark the cloth that needed to be cut, because he’d gotten too thin to fill it properly. “Will you forgive me, darling, for having put you into this shit world?”

“I’ve got nothing to forgive you for,” Strike hugged her awkwardly, and she sniffled a few times against his shoulder, then patted his back and forced a smile.

“Then let’s get you extra handsome, mister best man.”

His best friends’ wedding should have been very different, in Strike’s mind. They shouldn’t all have been seventeen, they shouldn’t be in the middle of a war whose nightly raids were devastating the city, it shouldn’t end with families broken and separated for an indefinite amount of time.

Strike had been born in a little Cornish beach village called St Mawes, from where his entire maternal family, the Nancarrows, proceeded. His mother, Leda, and his father, Cormoran Senior, had met through his grandfather, Lieutenant Edward Nancarrow I, in one of the rare occasions in which both men had set foot in Cornwall during the First World War. The spark of love, as Leda called it, had appeared that day, and they had begun writing letters, best they could through his deployments and war. Lieutenant Nancarrow had died in 1917, just before the end of the war, and when Cormoran had returned and Uncle Ted, who was also gone, had returned, Cormoran had asked Ted for permission to marry his little sister, which had been granted. They had married in the little Cornish farm of the Nancarrows, and moved to Bromley, London, from where his family was, to the little house Strike still inhabited. But Strike had still spent a lot of his youth in St Mawes, frequent holidays, summers, even some Christmases, and was close to his Uncle Ted, his Aunt Joan, and Ilsa Waterstone, the third child of the local pub owners, whose father had fought in the first war while his mother cared for the oldest child, then a baby, but now both parents were forced to work in a naval factory and close, temporarily, the pub, to avoid conscription.

Ilsa, however, had an older brother who per parental request, joined the naval factory too in order to avoid conscription, while his wife was a typist for the army, but in British soil, enabling them to not have to separate. She also had an older sister, who’d come to London to study naval engineering and follow in the family’s steps shall the war run long, so Ilsa was mostly alone in St Mawes. Strike had met her in his childhood because the Waterstones and the Nancarrows were neighbours, and because his aunt, Catherine, was married to Ilsa’s uncle, Colonel Peter Waterstone, which made them some sort of distant cousins. And so in his teens, when Strike had come on holiday to St Mawes, before the war, bringing his best friend from London, Nicholas Herbert, he had introduced he and Ilsa, as his best friend and his cousin, and they’d gotten along.

So along, in fact, that letters remained. Love letters, of which Strike had only read bits and pieces. Both Nick and Ilsa had been elated, living their first love, sneaking trips in the train as often as they could afford with their little afternoon works, walking around the beach or kissing by the Thames, they were in love. But not even them wanted to marry just two years into their relationship, and not like this. But there was no choice. Nick’s posh mother had managed to get him into medical school all the way up in  Leeds School of Medicine, part of the University of Leeds , and if he made it there and became a doctor, he would never have to enlist,  and even though Leeds was suffering some raids, it wasn’t like London, and it was farther from ‘the enemy’ and not vulnerable by sea like Cornwall . Students and doctors were between the very few exceptions to conscription, and he was nearly eighteen, the age in which people were regularly called to serve. And Nick was no war man. He was a pacifist, a diplomat, a soft man and a romantic. And in his anxiety about leaving Ilsa alone and so far, with her entire family working full days, he had pressured Ilsa to find an out too, to get a scholarship or  _something,_ and she, who’d always wanted to be a lawyer and who like Nick, had great grades and was hard working, found somehow, through a friend of a friend, a way to get admitted into  the University of Leeds and go with Nick. They’d live in a small flat in the outskirts of the city, study hard, and in the afternoons and weekends work in a printing house, and even though life would be hard, they’d be likely the safest of their families and be together.

The families had been elated to learn their children would be able to support and help each other and stay somewhere safe, and besides, become independent because now with rationing it was hard to feed everyone. Nick only had a brother and was middle-upper class, but Ilsa’s family was as poor as Strike’s, and she had two siblings and a sister in law as well.  And then, talks of marriage began between the parents, and it was decided. Nick and Ilsa weren’t completely against, because they were in love and thankful their families had at least respected that, but nobody liked to organise a fast and hurried wedding at seventeen, worried a raid would fall in the middle of it, and unprepared yet for adult life. But if they married, they could, if ever they couldn’t keep studying (say the University of Leeds was bombed, or work and money became impossible to get), try for a baby, and pregnant women or women with a baby in their care were exempt from conscription, so at least Ilsa wouldn’t have to go to war. It wasn’t an ideal plan. It was stressful, chaotic, and nobody liked to feel such pressure into marriage, and Strike knew it took a toll on them and their relationship, but they also knew their entire families could die in an instant and that together in Leeds, they had better odds. So Strike accepted to be their best man and tried, like everyone else, to make the day as special for the couple as possible, even if it was the smallest and fastest wedding of the century, with no money for banquets or honeymoons, and ending in a brutal separation with both his best friends being ripped from their families and him, for an indefinite amount of time, if they ever saw each other again.

  
  



	2. Silver lining

**C** **hapter 2:** **Silver lining.**

In between wedding planning, Strike tried to live a normal life, careful of the bombs, that’s it. While Ilsa and her parents were now in London for the wedding, living with the Herberts, Nick, Strike, Ilsa and Charlotte were in the same age group to be tutored at the same time by Aunt Catherine every morning for three hours. When that was over, Nick and Strike grabbed their factory uniforms and go work at the vehicle factory Nick’s father worked at in Bromley, to make some money for their families and in Nick’s case, his married life. He had made two rings of steel using leftovers he’d stolen at the factory, just very simple but durable and resistant bands, and for an engagement ring, he’d bought her a cheap little necklace with a heart, which was cheaper than an actual engagement ring, and which she never took off. She insisted she didn’t need diamonds and luxuries, even less under the circumstances.

And so Strike had very little time left for himself, but these days, when he could, he liked to spend it with Nick and Ilsa. He didn’t live far from the Herberts, and they arranged to meet every night after dinner, and share a cigarette between the three. Neither of them had smoked before the war, but now the stress was unreal, so they managed to smuggle one here and there, from the parents. That night the three sat together in a small park near their houses, eyes on the clear sky for planes. The three had a bad feeling, but that seemed to be perpetual these days.

In Nick and Ilsa’s company, Strike felt both at home and broken-hearted, knowing just how alone he’d be when they left. Strike was the taller of the three, and Nick and Ilsa were about as tall between them, and slightly shorter than Strike. And they all looked vastly different. Strike had his Uncle Ted’s, dense and dark curly hair, short, his face full of stubble that reached his neck, dark green eyes like his mother, a thousand dark eyelashes, a slightly crooked nose, because he boxed and it didn’t always heal right, and a large body, which had once been well-fed and wide like his father’s, but had turned too slim, giving him an appearance of a man with a big skeleton oddly empty beneath his cheap clothes. Ilsa was beautiful, not like Charlotte, but both boys notices other boys would turn around when she walked past. She was also brilliantly intelligent, and before the war, her humour had been contagious and riddled with sarcasm.  She had bright blue-green bespectacled eyes, her hair fair, long and wavy, harmonious features and a thin, slightly curvaceous complexion. Not that anybody could be fat these days, with the food so rationed. Nick had short fair hair, almond eyes soft brown, his skin as pale and pink as Ilsa’s, and a calm demeanour that was lately broken by the war.

“I almost forgot,” said Ilsa suddenly, and dug in her little purse to find a little envelop she handed Strike. “It’s our address in Leeds. You’ll write, yeah? Every day? Only half the letters tend to arrive, I heard… and you can come too, whenever you want. I know nobody can afford to leave London but… if it gets too bad, you should drag your family up. We’ll find a way to manage, we’re family.”

“Ilsa’s right,” Nick nodded. They all knew he wasn’t going to be the kind of husband to boss his wife around, partly because he wasn’t like that, and partly because Strike and Ilsa’s Dad and older brother would’ve killed him, friendship forgotten, if they heard Ilsa was suffering even slightly because of him. “We’ll manage.”

“I appreciate it,” Strike shoved the envelope inside his shirt, against his heart, where he could always remember maybe this wasn’t a goodbye, but a see you later. “Dad used to say the First War also looked like it was never gonna end, but when it did, came the hugs, the kisses, the child-making, the parties, the reunions, and all the light that had been lost. Mum says it’ll be like that again. Perhaps not now or tomorrow but… the Nazis will fall, and we’ll reunite again, right?”

“That’s surprisingly optimistic coming from you, and considering we’ve been bombarded nightly for days,” said Nick. As a matter of fact, they didn’t sit far from the neighbourhood’s anti-aircraft refuge.

“But yes,” added Ilsa. “We have to meet again, right? We just have to survive. Hold on long enough, avoid conscription no matter what.”

“I’m thinking about enlisting,” Strike confessed, and his friends turned to him, panicked.

“Why would you do that?” asked Nick. “Your father and all of our grandfathers died out there, Uncle Peter might never come back, Uncle Ted and Ilsa’s Dad barely made it out of the first war alive, and they’re kicking our arses, Oggy. The British Army’s a joke, they’re sending us out there to die, there’s nothing else.”

“And then what, Nick? When they come here, to our little island, they’re already decimating us with bombs, one’s nearly safer away,” argued Strike. “If we all avoid going, there’ll be no one left to fight.”

“Yes but until the big bosses don’t change strategy and we start winning something, the Nazis are going to do purée. Best option we have is hold on here as long as we can, and pray the Americans manage,” Ilsa intervened. She’d heard, like all of them, the terrible war stories from the very few of their relatives who came back, her father with a permanent fear and aversion to war, Uncle Ted, with chronic back injuries from shrapnel, which left him with minimum feeling from waist down, in a wheelchair and unable to conceive a child. “I heard the Germans have concentration camps, they just lock you in there to die, or kill you in gas chambers once you’re famine and begging for the suffering to end. And they don’t care if you’re a child, a baby, a disabled, an old woman… nobody gets away, Cormoran. They do that to war prisoners too, you know? And if you die, your mother won’t make it from sadness.” She took a long drag from her cigarette and passed it to Strike, who nodded and took a drag himself before passing it to Nick.

“I’m not saying I’d enlist happily, it’s just… money for the family, you know? We can’t go anywhere,” said Strike. “I’m not going to the City to study, that part gets bombarded the most, and I can’t leave my family, Lucy and Teddy are too young to make money. And car factory workers get exempt for now, but God knows tomorrow, I might just end up in conscription anyway… and by then maybe Teddy’s already died. Or Lucy. I can’t take care of them, not like my father could, not like this.”

“Well, you hold on for as long as you can and when you can’t, you write to us, before enlisting,” said Nick. “We’ll send money for the train ticket, and you come with the family, we’ll manage, Oggy. We’ll help you get jobs or studies in Leeds, students are exempt, right? We’ll hope it lasts.”

“How do you suggest we feed seven people, Nick?” Strike retorted.

“The only ones not making money are Teddy and Lucy, who coincidentally don’t eat that much. We’ll survive, just like lost castaways do.”

S uddenly the air became thick and quiet, and the three stood up, hairs raising. And soon enough, the sirens began across the neighbourhood. Nick took Ilsa’s hand, and they ran, and so ran Strike.

“RUN! RUN!” the three tried to warn everybody as they went, waking people up.

“Gotta get my siblings, you guys run!” Strike shouted over the sirens. He saw Ilsa nearly ran with him, but Nick pulled her to the refuge. He had sworn with his life to Ilsa’s family that he’d protect her.

Strike ran to his house, just as his family began to run out of it.

“Cormoran, your brother!” Leda shouted, carrying a bag. Teddy ran to him, and Strike scooped him up with one arm, grabbed Lucy’s hand, and began to run to the refuge with him, Catherine and Leda in tow.

Soon enough, they had, with thousands of people, made it to the refuge, just as the land began to shake with sounds of explosions. They found the Herberts and Ilsa’s parents in a corner and joined them, sitting around the floor, because there weren’t benches enough. Teddy was in his pyjamas, barefoot and cold, so Strike wrapped his jacket around him and held him close in his lap as the boy shuddered in fear.

“Why are they coming for us, Corm? We’re just families here, and children,” Teddy murmured, blue eyes full of fear. Strike gulped and tightened his arms around him.

“They’re just not British, Teddy. From the sky, our houses look like military things and they’re afraid we’ll kill their own families and children, they don’t know we’re only children too,” he lied.

“Then maybe the prime minister should talk to them, and we all agree to stop bombing and killing?” Teddy suggested, over the deafening sound of explosions. “If we’re all just afraid the other will kill us, we could just agree to stop all at once? It’s just a misunderstanding, right Corm?”

Strike smiled sadly and nodded.

“Yes, Teddy. Wars would be entirely avoided if people talked more, but now this isn’t just going to stop, you understand? ‘Cause everyone wants revenge. So we hold on, we survive… and it’ll all be okay. Remember the stories Dad told us? It’s better in the end. You’ll see.”

“I barely remember Dad any more…” said Teddy sadly. When their father had left, he was only three.

“You know what your Dad used to do when he was scared, Teddy darling?” said Leda, caressing his hair. “He’d sing songs. D’you want to sing a song?” the boy nodded and she smiled warmly before her beautiful voice filled the refuge, getting everybody to shut up, like it always happened, and focus on her instead of the bombs. “ _They were summoned from the hillside, they were called in from the glen, and the country found them ready at the stirring call for men. Let no tears add to their hardships, as the soldiers pass along, keep the Home Fires Burning,_ ” Strike joined in the popular post World War I song by Ivor Novello and Lena Ford. “ _While your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away they dream of home. There's a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out, 'til the boys come home. Overseas there came a pleading, ‘help a nation in distress’,_ ” Strike looked up as he began to hear everybody join along, and saw smiles in spite of the fear. Nick, Ilsa, Lucy, whose smiles he didn’t really he’d longed for and missed so much, smiled and sang, and Teddy did too, fear forgotten. “ _And we gave our glorious laddies, honour bade us do no less. For no gallant son of freedom to a tyrant's yoke should bend, and a noble heart must answer to the sacred call of ‘Friend’. Keep the Home Fires Burning, while your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away they dream of home. There's a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out 'til the boys come home_.”

They kept singing the old song with enthusiasm, some people crying through, until the long silence indicated bombs and sirens had long stopped. At last, they all came out, and Strike and his family stood in the street, Teddy still in his arms, as they watched the smoke fly into the sky, firefighter’s sirens in the horizon, the sky smokey but now plane-free.

“Did you see that?” Strike turned to his mother. “When you sing, the whole world stops and stares for a while.” He smiled small and Leda smiled, kissing his cheek. She’d wanted to be a singer, and their father had played the piano and sang with her countless times in his childhood.

“Music and love, Cormoran, are our most powerful weapons.”

Strike, Lucy and Teddy shared a single small bedroom, and their mother sang them to sleep and tucked them in bed. Strike was vaguely aware of a kiss pressed against his forehead before he succumbed to exhaustion, the rain ricocheting against the small window. Early morning, Aunt Catherine woke them up, hurried them to get dressed and go get breakfast, as usual, which Leda was already rationing, and Leda made sure Strike could have a tiny bit more bacon from her plate, so he was strong for the factory. Then she went to work as a nurse, to the hospital, and Aunt Catherine began her teaching lessons. First, Cormoran, Charlotte, Nick, Ilsa, and a few other boys and girls their age or so, who’d come to the house, and they’d learn history, Math, science and literature, recite poetry and learn house management. Then came Lucy’s group, but by then Strike and Nick were off to the factory, from which they arrived late. Nick would hurry to Ilsa’s arms, and she had probably spent her day preparing for Law School and learning from her mother and future mother in law more house chores, but Strike would watch them from a far and see how in spite of the tiredness, Ilsa would greet Nick at the door, bury her fingers in his fair hair, and kiss him longingly. Sometimes she’d notice him in the distance and wave and call goodnight, and Strike would wave back, his stomach clenching at the reminder that soon, it’ll be just him.

Strike would then rush to Charlotte’s manor, throw pebbles at the window, and maybe get a blow-job and some sex in the dark, despite the promise Strike had made his mother, and which was temporarily forgotten.

And so the days continued and the wedding arrived. It was small, just close family, Ilsa’s siblings not coming because they couldn’t miss work  for the long trip north, and it happened in St Mary’s Church in Bromley, near a number of houses that had succumbed in the latest raids. Strike put on his father’s suit, his mother knotted his tie, and albeit poor, they tried to look their best.

“Here,” said Leda, pulling a tiny box from a drawer in her room. She opened it and put out a leather watch, shiny and nice. “It was your father’s. His initials are engraved, and now, it should be yours. You share initials, after all.” Indeed the only difference between their names was the middle name, which was Richard for his father, after his own father, and Blue for him, after a song Leda used to love in her teens.

“Thanks, Mum. I’ll take care of it.”

Strike tried to shave as his father had taught him, trying to get the least amount of cuts. His eyes often wandered to the framed photograph of his parents’ wedding, one of the very few photographs in the house, which sat on Leda’s bedside cabinet. He missed the man very much, but he remembered how before going to the war, Cormoran Senior had hugged him and insisted it was his duty now, to take care of the family while he was away. He had thought he’d return, like he’d returned after World War I, but instead only a small amount of remains had made it back home.

Nick was soon at their house, handsome as ever, with a new suit and a expression of glee and tension mingled together, and he and Strike walked to the church together, chatter cut down to a minimum out of nerves. His family was already at Church, and soon Ilsa’s mother and Strike’s family arrived too. The Church seemed so big for such little guests, Nick’s parents and younger brother sitting in the first row with Mrs Waterstone in one side, Strike’s family in the first row in the other side, the Vicar, Nick and Strike standing at the altar, and a small string quartet in one side. Strike held in his pocket the rings Nick had made and engraved himself.

When the string quartet began to sound, they turned around to see the front doors open again and in walked Ilsa by the arm of her father. She was stunning, in a modest wedding dress she’d sown with her mother and mother in law, smiling timidly, and Strike’s eyes went from her to Nick, who suddenly smiled the most honest of smiles. He was then happy for the couple, for they got love, when most people got sadness, even if these days, both things seemed to come hand in hand.

With the wedding finished, Strike hugged both his best friends tightly, knowing hugs were numbered now, and everyone went outside to the carriage that awaited the newly-weds, which would take them to St Pancras’ train station in the city, and there they’d take the train to Leeds. Nick’s parents had already stuffed the carriage with the couple’s few belongings, and between tearful hugs and last-minute advice, handed Nick an envelope with some money, and Ilsa’s parents did the same with her, a large coat placed over her shoulders. It was May, but it was still chilly.

Farewells were the worst. They were tearful and anguishing, specially not knowing when or if they’d see each other again, and the most repeated words of advice were always the same. Stay safe. Take care of each other. Write as much as you can. Avoid conscription no matter what. Eat. Be healthy. Study a lot. Be  careful. There was a rush to get them to leave before another raid killed them all, which battled with the desire to hold them close and never letting them go. When Nick and Ilsa reached Strike, whom they had left for last, their faces were full of tears, pain and heartbreak, and Strike gulped, his eyes tearful, and did his best to stay strong for them.

“It’s only a see you later,” Ilsa said hoarsely. “You write a lot. Don’t be a stranger, okay? And survive.”

“I’ll do my best,” Strike hugged her, and Nick hugged them both. “Love each other all you can. Be safe, and become good doctor and lawyer. The nation’s gonna need those a lot.”

“You stay out of trouble,” said Nick, squeezing them both. “And focus on the silver lining, through the dark clouds shining.”

Turns out Nick and Ilsa avoided death by the skin of their teeth. That night, just when Ilsa’s parents had gotten in the train back to Cornwall with packets for Ted and Joan from Leda and her family, a bomb fell and the sirens didn’t ring, catching them sleeping. In the morning, they discovered with horror that the Herberts’ house was no longer there, and of their bodies they could only find some parts. They buried them in Bromley Cemetery with Strike’s father and Nick’s grandparents, and Strike spent the day trying to find personal objects to send in a package to Leeds. Writing to Nick what had happened, that his fourteen-year-old brother was dead, and so were their young parents, caused him physical pain and tremors. A letter from Ilsa came three weeks later, confirming that Nick was too shattered to write, and even to speak, and thanking them for the few belongings he’d rescued and for the burial they’d given them.

Strike, on his part, was feeling lonelier than ever. He could hardly write, not having anything happy to tell, but knew writing was important because it confirmed he was alive. So he just told them he missed them, that his family was all right, and that he hoped they’d see each other again soon, and they would share any news they got from war.

On a summer night, Leda found her eldest son crying alone at the park, when she returned from work. She quietly sat with him and hugged him close, and her perfume enveloped him completely.

“Bad day?” Leda asked softly, when he calmed down.

“Bad life,” replied Strike. “But who am I to complain. You’ve gotten it worse.” Leda smiled sadly. Her father died at fifty-five, when she was only twenty-three, and her mother had died at seventy-five three years previously. Her only sibling was in St Mawes, and she had no cousins or anything left, not even her husband, or friends, now the Herberts were gone and the Waterstones were so far. They were the only true friends she’d ever known.

“It’s not a competition,” said Leda. “I’m also twenty-nine years your senior, my love.” She sighed, rubbing his back. “You miss them a lot, don’t you?”

“I even miss school,” he confessed, tears in his face. “The music on the radio instead of war news. Dad singing. Ted and Joan preparing Christmas turkey. Teddy’s laugh. I miss fucking everything.”

“We’ve failed you, my boy. The adults of today… we should’ve avoided a second world war at all costs. We failed,” Leda held him tight. “But I want you to keep something in mind, all right? As long as the letters keep coming, Ilsa and Nick are still alive, they’re only up in Leeds, one train away. And as long as their hearts are beating, there’s always hope for a reunion. Hope is the last thing we can ever lose, Corm.”

Strike nodded, and smiled sadly at her, staring into her eyes.

“What would I do without you?”

“Hopefully, a fucking good job,” Leda kissed his forehead longingly, and toyed with his curls, looking at the sky. “Promise me something, will you?”

“Anything.”

“That you’ll always take care of your brother and sister. That you’ll fight to stay together no matter what, even if those Germans get here, you won’t let them separate you and send you to some camps of those, uh? And that you…” Leda caressed his cheek. “You’ll cry tears of laughter one day once more. You have the loveliest of smiles, and I’d hate for war to kill it too. You’ll go have a beer with Nick and Ilsa, who no doubt will have made a dozen children, those two,” she joked, and he chuckled, “and you’ll find someone to love that much too, uh? Someone better than that Campbell. Someone who deserves your big heart. Someone who’s easy to laugh with, even when times are dark.”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I’d like that.”

“That’s the good thing of silver linings, Cormoran. They look different for everyone, but they always mean the sun comes, and one smiles.”

  
  



	3. London withstood it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In memory of all those lives the planes took during World War II.

** C hapter 3: London withstood it. **

They remained in London for as long as it was possible, while work was still available, and they had the house. The weeks passed, the months passed, the war remained. By Christmas, Britain and the US had declared war on Japan, the Japanese had bombarded Pearl Harbour, Stalin in Russia and Britain had become allies, Germany, Italy and Japan were allies too, France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, Poland, Sweden, Czechoslovakia, and Austria were devastated and controlled by the Nazi, and it didn’t look like life was gonna get better. On February 1942, Japan took Singapore, and in the summer it appeared like the British and the Americans were finally winning something.

“Look, Mum,” Strike read from the papers enthusiastically. “We’re winning North Africa!”

Leda had fallen greatly ill with tuberculosis, which she’d gotten in hospital. She was dying, and the family was going through a particularly rough time, seeing her become more and more decrepit and in her bones each passing day. Leda smiled weakly and her frail hand caressed Strike’s hand.

“Looks like we’ll win after all?” she asked softly. Strike smiled broadly. He was now eighteen, and avoiding conscription with his work at the factory and his aunt as a tutor, putting him as student.

“We will win, Mum. And you will see the silver lining. You’ll see,” He kissed her hand, even though Catherine was tired of telling them to keep some distance, because tuberculosis was contagious and had no cure yet. Strike was seeing Charlotte less, and more in secret, but their relationship wasn’t quite over. Leda knew, but said nothing, so he’d think he was keeping a good secret.

Her blood-stained lips curved in a soft smile and Strike cleaned them gently with a wet cloth.

“I don’t think I will, darling,” said Leda. “But heaven with your Dad… doesn’t look like a bad silver lining either.”

Strike’s eyes filled with tears and he nodded slowly.

“Looks different for everybody, isn’t it?”

“Yes…” Leda coughed, and some more blood came out. “Promise me darling… you’ll look after your siblings, won’t you? You’ll be a good boy for your mother, you’ll keep them safe, you’ll survive. For me.”

Strike took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I swear, Mum. I won’t let anything happen to Teddy and Lucy.”

“And if you have to…” Leda whispered. The raids in London had long ago stopped suddenly, but the fear remained. A few weeks before they’d received news that Catherine’s husband, Uncle Peter, was also dead, his ship sunk in the Atlantic. “Go to Cornwall. If you need help… Ted and Joan… they’ll help you…”

“I know,” Strike nodded.

“You’ve got their address?”

“And Nick and Ilsa’s. They keep saying we should go, they’re doing well.”

“Maybe you should,” Leda coughed weakly. “Fuck… shouldn’t have smoked so much.” Strike couldn’t help laughing at that, and Leda giggled, until her face suddenly lost all colour and stopped moving, her eyes transfixed in the ceiling.

“Mum?” Strike stopped laughing. “Mum. Mum!” he shook her, but she didn’t move. “Mum! Wake up Mummy!”

“Cormoran?” Catherine appeared at the door in a rush. “Cormoran, don’t get so close…”

“She’s not moving!” Strike shouted, looking at her with tears in her eyes. “Aunty, do something!”

Catherine’s face fell, and her eyes filled with tears, moving to Leda. Slowly, she walked to her nephew and pulled him to his feet, leaning over her sister-in-law. She gently pressed her fingers on the frail neck for a moment, and then closed Leda’s eyes.

“No…” Strike murmured. “No! Do something!”

“I can’t,” Catherine turned to him, and hugged him. “I’m sorry, darling. I can’t help her any more.”

The funeral was cheap, quick and rushed. After that, they had to burn bedsheets and Leda’s pyjamas, and wash themselves in hot water until their skin was raw, to try and make sure they wouldn’t get tuberculosis too, or something else. The children were devastated, but Strike couldn’t cry any more. That day, he had no paper to write to Nick and Ilsa. Instead, he took a piece of tissue he found in the trash, and an old, reused envelope, and simply wrote ‘ _Mum died today. Love, Oggy._ ’ and he sent it to Leeds.

A few months later, the Russians won the Battle of Stalingrad, and Britain celebrated. Strike worked at the factory, then enjoyed Charlotte’s body, an activity that lately came in complete silence. Charlotte’s father had just died in the front, and the family was considering moving to Scotland, father from the danger.

“Maybe we should head to Cornwall, there’s nothing here any more,” said Catherine on the night of Strike’s nineteenth birthday, packing their suitcases in case they had to run. “Truro was bombed, but St Mawes seems safe…”

“No,” said Strike. “If the German ships make it, they’ll be the first to fall.”

“That’s also true,” Catherine sighed, closing their suitcases. “I can hardly keep any students any more, the kids are either being sent to the front, dying or leaving. We’ll have to find somewhere to run to. No more money here.”

“Where will we go, Auntie?” asked Lucy. She had turned fifteen, and her blue eyes seemed sadder every day. She had just begun working at the factory with Strike, which had changed production to make planes for the RAF.

“I don’t know, sunshine,” Catherine hugged her, kissing the top of her head. “But don’t worry, all right? We’ve got some money, we could just head to Leeds, Nick and Ilsa seem all right there… we’ll figure it out.”

That December, Strike got such a bad flu they feared he wouldn’t make it, and when he could finally return to work, he had lost weight and was weak and frail. On January 1943, Strike and Lucy were returning home from the factory when, in the far horizon, they saw bombs fall in their neighbourhood. The sirens hadn’t sounded that day, they’d been caught by surprise. Strike and Lucy ran, hand in hand, and with eyes wide in horror, saw their house was shattered, along with two or three in the area. Neighbours looked for survivors.

“Cormoran, Lucy!” a neighbour spotted them, relieved. “Thank God!”

“Catherine and Teddy were there!” Strike shouted, and with some neighbours, they began a frantic search between the rubble. Teddy appeared first, crying and with some scratches and bumps, but that God, mostly okay. Lucy held him in her arms, hugging the nearly seven year old tight, and Strike saw Catherine’s hand between the rubble, he reached out, moving some wood and brick out of the way, and pulled from her armpits to get her out. Catherine was gasping, eyes wide, and her legs were gone, blood pouring out. Strike’s eyes widened in fear, and he took his aunt in his arms, knowing she was dying.

“Oh God,” Lucy gasped, coming closer.

“Stay back, don’t let Teddy see!” Strike roared, Teddy’s cries still loud.

“C-Corm’ran…” Catherine’s weak voice came, and her hand caressed Strike’s cheek weak and cold. “T-take c...re… ‘f… fam...ly…” she slumped dead in his arms and Strike clenched his jaw and hugged her closer.

Without a home, with only a few bags and suitcases of belongings, and with only a bit of money, this time leaving London was unavoidabl e. But before it came to that, Strike had one more card to try, and so he walked to the Campbell’s manor, and found them packing.

“You’re leaving then?” asked Strike.

“Yes, Croy,” Charlotte answered, packing her suitcase in her room. She hadn’t shown much affection or commiseration for Strike’s loses, and now didn’t even kiss him at the entry, but Strike just though she was hurting herself, becoming cold with the pain. “Mum has friends there, Viscounts of Croy. Anyway, they’ll lend us their guest house.”

“Is there any chance me and my siblings can tag along?” asked Strike. “I’ll pay you.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte snorted, turning to look at him with her grey eyes. Strike sighed, caressing her cheek.

“I love you Charlotte,” he murmured. “I’d do anything for you. And I hoped… Teddy and Lucy have nowhere else to go, if I send them to St Mawes, they’ll be vulnerable to attacks by sea. Please, Charlotte, we’ve lost everything… couldn’t your Mum convince those viscounts to let us stay in a small room? Or… perhaps we could stay here, if you’re all leaving? I need to put a roof over their heads, you’ve got plenty of resources…”

“D’you think I’m a fucking charity?” Charlotte snapped, and Strike frowned. “Are you taking advantage now?”

“No, no, of course not, I just thought—,”

“You fuck well, but not that well, don’t get excited,” Strike’s face filled with hurt and Charlotte laughed. “Oh please, what made you think you were anything important? I’ll likely marry Jago, the young son of the Viscount, he’s got a lot more to offer than you. Look, it’s nothing personal Bluey, is just survival,” she kissed him gently, and smiled sadly. “We’ve sold the house, and we need the money. And what would the Ross family think of us if they saw us arrive with peasants in tow? A six year old, no less.”

“We could work for you,” said Strike. “Charlotte, please, I’m begging you. At least take my siblings…”

“I’m telling you kindly, Bluey, I’m sorry but it cannot happen. My Mum won’t be as nice, she’ll just kick you out and slap you for even asking, so just go, will you? St Mawes’s not that bad.”

“That’s it then?” Strike frowned, beyond hurt. “You’re not gonna do anything for us? After years dating me?”

“Dating you? Bluey, you were a nice distraction in painful times, please! I didn’t think you were so naive!” Charlotte exclaimed. “What made you think…? I never promised anything. Never said I love you—,”

“No you just jumped my bones—!”

“And so did you! I thought we had a mutual arrangement!”

“It was more to me!”

“That’s hardly my fault!” Charlotte pushed him gently. “Go! We can never be, and honestly… why would I want us to be?”

With his heart shattered beyond repair,  Strike  had no other option, and so he took his siblings to the train in St Pancras, and they made the long trip to  Falmouth , where they’d find a way to get to St Mawes. Perhaps the ferry still worked, or they’d find horses. Strike had thought about their options in depth, and had concluded that St Mawes, in spite of its vulnerability, was the best choice. Without Catherine,  and it was only a matter of time before he received calls for conscription, no longer being a student, but in St Mawes, they could work the farm and be free of conscription, and  Staff Sergeant Ted Nancarrow, a farmer but a man of culture, could continue their education with his wife. Aunt Joan was a doctor, so they didn’t expect to see much of her these days, but she was loving, nurturing and brightly intelligent, and maybe between the two, the children would be all right. And if the Germans invaded, they’d be the first to die, and not suffer any more, or Strike hoped so. He carried his father’s old gun under his jacket, and was willing to kill his own siblings before a German could land hands on them.

“Cormoran, Lucy, Teddy!” Ted was the most surprised to open his front door that night and see them. Teddy cried and climbed on the wheelchair to hug his namesake, and Lucy cried and ran to hug him too. Strike held their bags and suitcases and locked eyes with Ted.

“A bomb destroyed the house and killed Catherine, the sirens didn’t ring,” said Strike. “We’ve nowhere else to go, Uncle Ted.”

Ted sighed, his eyes filling with pain, and motioned for him to join the hug.

“That’s all right, my children. You’ll stay here with us, this is your home.”

They entertained themselves at the farm, and Strike could acquire paper and envelopes to write to Nick and Ilsa again and tell them what had happened, that they were in St Mawes now, and that if all else failed, he would enlist and send his siblings to Nick and Ilsa, and asked for them that, if it came down to it, they would take care of his siblings as if they were their own. Nick and Ilsa answered promptly, with news for their own. One, they lamented what had happened but promised to look after Lucy and Teddy like family if it came down to it, and two, sadly announced Ilsa had been in hospital, after having a miscarriage. They hadn’t known she was pregnant, but it was sad and painful, particularly for her, nevertheless.

The days in St Mawes seemed to pass more easily. It was sunny the majority of the time, the farm was small but beautiful, full of plants and trees, and the beach was were Teddy laughed again, as they played and jumped and splashed. Joan filled their hearts with hugs and affection, Teddy played the piano, they sang again, and prayed nightly.

One night, however, the sirens echoed across the small town, and Strike jumped off the bed, grabbed his suitcase, which he kept ready, and Lucy and Teddy.

“Take your suitcases!” he shouted, as he forced them to stay ready to fly every hour. The three ran, and met Joan and Ted in the sitting room.

“You lot go ahead, to the refuge!” shouted Joan, who was helping Ted with his wheelchair, not listening to his shouts of leaving him behind. “Cormoran, your siblings are your responsibility!”

“Let me help—!”

“RUN!” Joan shouted at him, and so he took his siblings and they ran out of the house, just as a bomb dropped behind the house, but so strongly, the entire house crumbled.

By the time they found Ted and Joan, they were long dead.

“Now what?”

It was mid June. The Axis had surrendered North Africa, and the Allies were preparing to invade Sicily. The three orphaned siblings stood in the Roseland Peninsula, having put Ted and Joan’s ashes in the ocean, their bags and suitcases, very few belongings they kept, with themselves. Lucy’s question popped full of sadness, and Strike’s chest clenched painfully at the thought.

“Now, Leeds,” he murmured. “You and Teddy.”

“What about you, Corm?” asked Teddy, his eyes filled of sadness. He looked older than his age now, from the pain.

“I’m subjected to conscription now, Teddy,” said Strike. “All men eighteen to forty one have to go, if they’re not students, or vital industries and occupations. It’s either the army or the coal mines now, and to be about as dangerous, I’ll take the fresh air and take some Germans down with me.”

He sighed deeply, resigned, and Lucy and Teddy looked horrified. The Waterstones had helped them, tried to persuade them to stay, but they were too many and Strike knew staying with them would only sink them too. They couldn’t provide for everyone, and St Mawes had proved to not be so safe anyway.

“You can’t go,” said Lucy, the breeze making her light brown hair dance. “They’ll kill you, Corm… join the lighthouse or something! They’ll let you stay then!”

“What for?” Strike looked at her full of sadness. “Lucy, the army pays better than all of them, and I need to feed you both, even if you work, and I’ve no doubt Ilsa and Nick will get you a job in Leeds… we’re far too poor, and these funerals too fucking expensive. I need more work, or you’ll die of hunger anyway. I’m the eldest, I’m nearly twenty now… it’s only right I go. We’ve got no choice.”

Teddy began to cry, and Strike dropped to his knees, hugging his brother and then his sister, who began crying too.

“We separate now, but reunite soon when the war’s over,” said Strike, staring at the ocean over their heads, his eyes damp. “We’ll take Sicily, conquer Italy and Hitler will have to surrender. It can only be months now, you see? And then, I come back, and we’ll be a family again.”

“You promise?” Lucy asked, sniffling and rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah,” Strike kissed her cheek, hugging her tight. “You have to be a strong woman now, Luce. Y’know what your name means?” Lucy shook her head and he smiled sadly. “Comes from the Latin Luscius, which means, of light. You’re light, sister. You will take Teddy to Leeds, you will find Nick and Ilsa, and the four of you will take care of each other. Avoid conscription, wait for me, I’ll pick you up when this is over, and I’ll build us a house, where the farm once stood. We’ll rebuild the farm, and have dogs and rabbits… it’ll be great, okay? It’ll be our own silver lining. I promise.”

“You won’t disappear forever like Daddy?” Teddy asked, crying into his chest.

“I won’t,” Strike nuzzled into his hair, full of sadness. “You just wait. You sing, and each time you sing, I’ll be a minute closer to return, Teddy. But for now, you have to be a big boy. Do everything Lucy says, stick to her like a mole, and wait for me. Do your homework, study a lot… when I come back, I’ll teach you more Latin, and I’ll get you your very own doggy.”

“Yeah?” Teddy smiled through the tears and Strike smiled back at him.

“Yeah. You just wait.”

O ver the next few days, staying with the Waterstones, Strike bought the siblings’ train tickets, wrote to Nick and Ilsa, sold the stuff he wouldn’t need to give his siblings money, and made IDs that held around Teddy and Lucy’s necks with lanyards, so that if they got lost, they knew what to do. He made them memorise the trains, the route, the address of the Herberts, quizzed them to make sure they were ready, and when in August Sicily surrendered to the Allies, Strike took them to the train station and bid them tearful goodbyes full of hugs. He walked along the platform, holding back his tears, waving at them, who waved back from a small window.

“LOOK AFTER EACH OTHER!” Strike shouted. “DON’T SEPARATE, NO MATTER WHAT! DON’T SEPARATE!”

Strike had given most of his belongings to Teddy and Lucy to bring to Leeds. Now he only carried what himself and his pockets. With his wallet and his watch, and when he enlisted, he was given a uniform, and he chose the British Army, like his family before him. He was immediately dispatched to Italy, to fight against the Germans and the Italians and kill Mussolini. He was terrified, saddened, but he let anger and resentfulness fill his heart and keep him from crying filling him with the strength of revenge.

  
  



End file.
